Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“I have no idea how much he understands,” he finishes with a shrug.

“I’m guessing enough to realize we’re discussing him while he’s in the room,” I say, offering an apologetic smile to Alonzo. “Hola. Buenos días. ¿Cómo estás?”

His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when I offer the greeting.

“Hola, Señorita Morales,” he replies, dipping his head in my direction.

I look to Cal for cues of what he wants me to say.

“Um, tell him that we first want to say we’ve been impressed by the footage we’ve seen of him,” Cal says. “Including his performance in the Olympics and his workouts.”

I hesitate, torn between translating to the letter and at least priming the pump a little.

“We first want to say,” I start in Spanish, but falter when I meet the shadows in those dark eyes.

His brows lift, inquiring, waiting.

“We first want to say,” I begin again, “that we are so very sorry for your recent loss.”

He flicks a speculative glance from me to Cal and back to me.

“I cannot imagine what you’ve experienced over the last month,” I press forward in a rush. “And you have our deepest sympathy.”

A breath of silence follows my statement before he responds.

“Gracias.”

I dive in before Cal questions why I’m still going and convey the initial words he asked me to say.

It’s not perfect, and a word or two may have been lost here and there, but Cal trots out all the reasons Bagley is the firm to represent him, and I translate. Alonzo asks pointed, intelligent questions. He may be alone, but he’s not naïve. After half an hour of the back and forth, with Alonzo asking questions through me and Cal offering the right answers through me, I’m not sure if we’re any closer to signing.

“I need to ask you a question,” Alonzo says, still in Spanish, leveling his probing dark stare on me.

I turn to Cal to interpret.

“He wants to ask—”

“No, Banner,” Alonzo interrupts. “You. I want to ask you a question.”

I slide a careful glance to Cal, whose eyes are fixed on my lips, waiting for the English equivalent of whatever Alonzo is saying.

“Okay,” I answer still in Spanish. “Of course. What is your question?”

“What’s he saying?” Cal demands.

“This man, he talks the good talk,” Alonzo says. “But is he a good man? You tell me the truth.”

I have no idea what makes him think I would give anything other than an answer that paints Cal in a great light. I prepare my response, but it dissolves on the tip of my tongue when I meet Alonzo’s solemn stare. This man has been through so much already. I read that he never left the hospital but stayed there hoping for even one surviving family member. And one by one, they all died. I can’t imagine the transition into America, into a complex ecosystem like the NBA, will be easy.

Survival of the fittest.

Do what you have to do to be the last one standing.

If Mitch were sitting in this seat, he’d already have answered. He’d have already told Alonzo unequivocally that Cal is a good man. I barely know Cal, but I’m pretty sure he’s a member of The Pride, and from my experience, I wouldn’t trust anyone in that secret society. Maybe my advisor is right. Maybe I don’t have the ruthless streak to survive this game because when faced with the moment of truth, I cannot tell a lie.

“I honestly don’t know, Alonzo,” I say. “There are few men I trust with my life and money, which is what you are doing. So is he a good man? I’m not sure, but will he make good deals? Absolutely.”

The quiet builds in the room while Cal and I wait for Alonzo’s response.